unrest in peace
by brombones
Summary: pointless porn, Klaroine. Because everyone deserves it after TO. Maybe I will write more, maaaaaaaaybe I won't.


**unrest in peace**

pointless porn written in 20 mins, slightly drunk ngl

* * *

Mansard swept rooftops, and the rain curling off the corners, falling into the tin like anvils, more like catapults, and the _boom boom boom_ of her free form heart—

Her lips are kerosene, violent clean, the end, the harbinger of all the things you love destroyed, and his – a match.

Yes—

Hold, on

The spark is short but the chemical smoke, it lasts so _long_.

(and feathers, passed by, plucked)

It was all like this, the unkind royalty of the purple walls, dark and unfiltered like still water, sucking up the light no-light new-moon, like the four built up around them could drown you, like you were already under, hair held in tangled seaweed knots and _inhale._

(SHAKEN)

take

a _second_

to _breathe_

_in gold_

This place a dungeon for the glam damned, and the strangling smell of honey and Chinese opiates and musk, huge pupils like discuses, and the way he _sways_ above her like the heavy trunk of a hateful cypress, wizened lines crosshatch his forehead like tic tac _oh,_ bayou blood up in his core. There are these murky calling voices, imprints in the walls, and every thick inch of his lip is mournful moss brushed sugar sweet, saccharine like black apple poison in the leaves. And the storm outside paints lightning between his fingertips, splayed gargoyle stone like branches, all his rushing brushstrokes, here, there, fucking _take it_, that canvas can only ache _so_ much but he is merciless, carnal, incandescent in florid ultraviolet. He will burn it, layers and layers and layers only to be seen years later in spots like bite marks, like a curse, like beets smashed against your body.

No this was no way to baptize a baby, there was nothing new here, only the cradle-grave robber she invited.

Tomb, after tomb, after tomb, of his mouth on her throat-

The satin sheets are shoved between her thighs, lurking maroon, sticking into the snapping wetness of her body, she is the rain, better more natural, cleaning every inch of him, assaulting in aroma like pollen, and worse than a storm, strangling in the no never god-fearing waves of her hateful thunder. Never let him go, not until the rolling of the tidal atmosphere stops, not until the electricity of her ivory teeth closes away, unconductable, but it flashes again and again and again, it lights up his whole sky, it dazzles his blank pitless eyes. His nothingness, but she forgets to stray, carve out his jack-o-latern smile with your unkind words, once slice, two, three and he has an eye, one eye, maybe to _see,_ shove the light inside before he rots.

Her thighs are wet, cranberry paint on bulletproof legs, because he sunk the crooked black hook of his jaw into their muscles. His is the handkerchiefed outlaw, sticky red masquerade smeared around his upper lip and mandible, the man with no name, the wicked curve of a moon orbited smile. Put your hands up darling, now _dance— _drop all your valuables here. Train robber monster form, he could have been, for all she's known-

That is the artery there, one dropped thigh, all of this pungent cinnamon blood, the burn of it harsh and clean against his nose like ginger, sweet southern molasses in mean coffee. It draws colors to the back of his closed eyelids, screaming and coiling at him like a rattling snake. Her knees bent like mountain tops, there is his hand, spiraled like the snare end of a whip around one tiny ankle, _burn it_, but her knees, _strong,_ snow-capped Himalaya and he is windswept at their base, slack-jawed, recalcitrant cheekbone slapped pink by the burning gale.

He looks open-mouthed, his tongue has become too heavy, vesicles like stones in it, coals from her never-kisses, all that breath panting to put it out. Those fangs hanging like reigns loop them, pulsing gums, his mouth pulled down every time she curves up those vertebrae like a porous ancient crescent moon. But him: teeth, too many teeth like a singular breed of shark with rows and rows too much, take them into your cotton white fire, sweetheart, all that prim powder skin, all of that good, clean laundry. Pull them _out— _relieve me of them.

Please they shred my lips, my mouth, my words, my tongue, they slice it through like cuts of filet, like everyone is _hungry_, like they are all _eating me_, and there I am trying to articulate— but it is always only blue, blood, butcher.

Blue

_blood_

_butcher._

Heart there, kill shot there, dagger them all for a round dozen of years, one swift drag of rotted fingernails across the stony abdomen and a confetti of intestines, a sludge of pumpkin gut, the pulled insides of a papaya, bowels broken open, liver, sweet _liver_, his favorite and all its life-long toxins, but _here—_

_Sweetheart, _do not think him so _unrefined_—

He has been a prince many times, and for you, maybe a pauper in a park under neon, maybe a beggar in an empty field of empty bleachers, maybe a _man_, maybe all those things he _hates—_

_(maybe_ yes, but you won't wait)

He's always been. Wrapped up in those words you deny him, those syllables he can hear just on the flat edge of your moans, trying to coax it from you, blow you open like a flower, give you _sun— _like he could do it, like it were even possible, just let him hear all of those oleander petals, soft enough, he _could_ at least hear them open. And what else could you _need_, and that is all he asks, no sign, no scripture, no promise, no deed, no devout shawl, no kneeling, kissed, keening-

No Madonna, no Magdalena.

You are barren, blonde, and brash, never-virgin, never-bleach, never his, and all these: mouth wider than a canyon, a voice more vexing than the souls on Sunday, you are everything he should fear, all the power with none of the destiny, and yet he runs to you. Yet he falls to you? And this _need? _Isn't it obvious he does? He has those ears, you forget, just barely _whisper_ it and it will be around him like wasps, burning him, killing him, and the only true thing he has ever _felt—_

Yes, it will be so painful, baneful, cut his talons, drain his mind of grey matter, turn him to a patient mumbling half-words after a lobotomy, maybe he would suffer then, even worse? Maybe he would be a greater king, for once, monarch of something, his castle on a white pure country, insignificant breasts like pale pink gates, stunted girlhood form, valleys of delicate skin grown over the blood of victims, the conquered, the killed— _you_.

Crown him, give him a tapestry, weave it in silver if not anything better, tell his story that he was not only the helical dragon, that it is better to have a mottled knight in ruined armor, for he climbed for the tower of you so many, many times.

That he _burned._

_Charred _corpse, wax skin beneath the form of a titan.

And this is his task: a Spanish rose and no more drinking, only prayers at her steeple, yes is this what devils do? His mouth and a comb of honey, a snare, an open keep, a sanctuary carved of her body that he could never do—that is not for teeth, not for sharpness, not for knives, wanted dead or alive. She is made of alabaster and blacks yes, there, and her hand is merciless in his hair, rigid at the roots like stone. Yes, he, the skeleton key, and she all the secrets she would bear.

He tastes blood and body, he tastes her like a wolf tastes summer, tastes rain, tastes the season to checkmate, to desecrate, to lock his flat palm, to drag his warm tongue as her legs hitch like traps against his back, and he is caught in the mountain snow, trophied, yes make a pelt out of him and wear him or so you think—

He will let you _think_, sweetheart—

That is how solid sold he is on you, that is how revered, and the rough brush of all his beard against the butterfly folds of labia and pink unplastic body, the way he rolls in you like a dog in something he wishes to _wear—_

There are his eyes, buried under primitive orbital ridges, like some kind of neolith, some artifact, but in the sockets black coarse tar. His heavy knees sink like into sand at the end of the bed, one leg outstretching to the floor for balance, it is primal— that instinct, that frigid south-by-southwest paranoia, directional and always right.

This is the furthest thing from _control._

This is the part of you not meant for _him_, or any man, any _one_— yes, he knows that. It is like a solemn truth, a good book, a psalm beneath the possession, beneath the need to _own_ you. That is why he is here, curled, giving and getting only the satisfaction of knowing he protects _that_. A raw and hungry acknowledgement, the power that comes from playing you, Caroline, from hearing you sing the harp as he plucks the chords, one by one, drags back the sling to your bow and waits until you scream for the scathing puncture of release. Arrow through your body, up your throat, past the vocal chords and

_Klaus—_

Yes, and there goes his saurian grin. Pure white granite and cancerous tobacco and the gleaming smear of Caroline against his teeth, the culpable stain of blood, the monomania to never stop, and her begging, her begging and her prayers only he can hear, secret words, religious blasphemy, fruit of thy womb, and her relief, her tangled liar's lies untold, her breath saying all the black, black honesty.

She rattles the gold leaf off the wallpaper, it falls to the floor like only winter can come after the heat of her summer is unleashed. Melt this town, melt this place and all its people.

What does he

even

_ care._

He can hear her heart fight through her ribs like a swollen boxer, his lemonade huntress, those true things inside her that she still won't say.

Oh, he is the plague.

She breathes.

Oh, she is a dead body. Not meant for pleasure or for freedom, only grieve them, _grieve them_.

She imagines herself in a coffin as her eyes break open, against the dark, dead beside him. The ceiling is the dirt, sink feet sunk, six feet teeming and the rain on the ironrod balcony makes the wild things seep into the wood, makes the worms come out.

The open window, the humid air, the stench of what they have done.

He rises, sinewy arms locked against her sides, yellow eyes of a lion's pride, desert sand, hair ripped and torn like caramel, like taffy pulled of ink. The rain is cool on the city outside. He is breathless:

Be my _bride—_

Oh yes, she thinks.

She will say no,

every

time.

But yes, it is good.

_It is so good that I died._


End file.
